


One Year

by badgerling



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerling/pseuds/badgerling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carter had her handler, Mitchell had his, and Dr. Daniel Jackson, PhD, had Jack O'Neill. (takes place during <i>Continuum</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year

Someone in Washington D.C. hated Jack O'Neill.

That had become increasingly clear, ever since meeting up with a guy who apparently didn't exist and a dead astronaut on the ice above the Arctic Circle. The fallout from that incident should have been over and done with the second the sub surfaced and the freaks in the infirmary went on their merry and crazy way, but there was something about it all that Jack couldn't shake. He kept thinking about that Jackson guy and the weirdly clear way he had stared at him even while drugged. That he blamed entirely on the fact that while what actually happened roundabout eleven years ago was vastly different from what Jackson said had happened, Jack had still walked into his master bedroom on a bright summer day to find his eight year old son playing with a loaded handgun.

He'd managed to stop something tragic from happening then, and he hadn't even told Sara about that, not even after she'd come home from the supermarket, and definitely not after their divorce. There was no way for some crazy archaeologist obsessed with pyramid aliens or whatever to know about it.

The fact that he had? It had caught him off-guard. More than that, it had knocked him off-balance and shook him to his core. From that moment on, he had decided that he hated archaeology and Egypt and men named Doctor Daniel Jackson, PhD.

So obviously the day the file hit his desk with a little label that actually said "Dr. Daniel Jackson, PhD," Jack knew that someone in Washington hated his guts.

He'd tried talking to General Hammond about it, but that had gone exactly nowhere, and even arguing that he'd obviously had more of a connection with the dead astronaut who had _obviously_ been undressing him with her eyes, the general had given him an order. Carter had her handler. Mitchell had his.

And Dr. Daniel Jackson, PhD, had Jack O'Neill.

Because someone in Washington hated him.

He grumbled all the way to New York, about how technically this should have been someone else's problem, about how he should have been on some black ops mission in some dusty country, but no. Someone with a little pull and a hell of a grudge hated Jack O'Neill.

So he'd gone, all the way to the little coffee shop next door to Jackson's apartment building, and he sat there scaring the locals because he couldn't help glaring out the front window. His eyes even narrowed just a little when he saw Jackson hobbling his way through the door. The younger man didn't even look in his direction as he went straight to the coffee counter, made his order, and then, only then, did he bother to acknowledge Jack's presence. It was entirely possible that Jackson could have come in, shook Jack's hand immediately, and Jack still would have found something to be annoyed about.

His attitude didn't improve when Jackson didn't bother to actually greet him. He made his way across the coffee shop with a tiny barista carrying his coffee for him following in his wake. Jack remained just as silent as the waitress put the coffee down and Jackson got himself situated in a chair, leaning his crutches up against the window behind him. Neither one of them said a word, neither one of them wanting to be the one that broke first, as Daniel pulled the lid off his coffee and dumped two creams and one sugar into the cup.

Jack couldn't stop a slightly disgusted, "What is _that_?" as Jackson stirred the coffee with a tiny little straw.

He watched Jackson's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, but the other man's voice managed to sound polite and bland and unemotional as he replied, "Sumatra Mandheling."

"They really serve that here?" Jack wasn't entirely sure if Jackson was just fucking with him or honestly telling the truth. His question was only answered by Jackson giving him a look over the tops of his glasses with a slightly raised eyebrow that Jack somehow knew meant ' _Obviously_ ' without Jackson even have to say the word. The fact that he knew that coupled with his general state of annoyance anyway only made Jack frown and swear to himself not to speak for the rest of their meeting.

That didn't exactly work out like planned. Mostly because this was an official meeting, and somehow Jack didn't think turning in a report tomorrow about how they had sat in silence for three hours would go over all that well. Though don't think Jack wasn't tempted to do just that. It would serve Hammond and Hayes and everyone else in Washington right for sending him here.

"So," Jack began, keeping his tone friendly, though the look Jackson gave him this time said that he knew Jack wasn't being entirely sincere. He'd worry about how Jackson knew him that well later. Right now, he had a big long list of questions he was supposed to ask. Literally. There was an entire questionnaire they were supposed to fill out. He took said questionnaire out of the file, laying it on the table as he folded his hands and stared right at Jackson. Without flinching and with only the slightest urge to punch the man. That was progress. "How are you? How are you settling in? How's the leg, the apartment, the view, the city?"

For a second, Jack was almost sure that Jackson wasn't going to bother to answer those questions either, which Jack wouldn't have blamed him for. Mostly because Jack really didn't care. Not really.

Eventually, though, Jackson said, "Fine," and opened his mouth like he was going to add more. He seemed to think it over, though, and figured that that one word actually did answer all of Jack's questions. Which it did, and the two of them fell into silence again. This time Jack let it stretch out for an hour, then two. He stared out the window, at the people coming and going from the coffee shop, to the barista who brought Jackson a refill every time he gestured for it, but never actually at Jackson.

Jack figured two hours was a good time for their first meeting, even if it was mostly done in silence, and he gathered his note-less papers and rose to his feet. "Same time next week?" he asked, before he nodded and added, "Good," without actually waiting for a reply. He was out of that coffee shop faster than was probably polite.

Their second meeting (same time, same place, same damn coffee order) went exactly the same way. So did the third and the fourth, but after their fifth meeting resulted in another report about one word answers, President Hayes himself actually called Jack, told him to talk to the damn archaeologist, and to do the damn meetings in a less public place. This had to do with national security, after all, somehow (Jack didn't exactly know how some crazy archaeologist, a guy who didn't exist, and a dead astronaut impacted national security, and the president didn't explain it either), and he needed to be more careful.

So for their sixth meeting, Jack approached Jackson's apartment a day early. When the other man actually looked surprised to find Jack standing there when he opened the door, Jack called that a little, tiny victory. Jackson's expression only turned more annoyed when he invited Jack in and all Jack said to him was, "You should get a plant."

"I don't intend to be here that long," Jackson replied, almost automatically. If he second-guessed that reply after he said it, he didn't show it. Even if he did add, "In this apartment," unconvincingly. Jack knew that that was one of those moments he was supposed to be on the lookout for, but he didn't follow-up on it. It wasn't like there was a chance of that happening even on those days when Jack was willing to pretend that he believed this whole mess.

Jack just gave Jackson a look of his own, a warning not to follow that line of thought. The apartment was small, and Jack took his own tour of the place - living room, hallway that ended in a bedroom and a bathroom, and a kitchen that was only slightly larger than a closet. He opened the fridge, kinda hoping that there would be beer or something even stronger, but he could only frown in disappointment and turn to Jackson who was still wearing the same annoyed expression.

"I have coffee," Jackson said with another lift of his eyebrows that Jack could still read as annoyed.

"I'm good, thanks," Jack replied, heading to the couch and taking a seat. All without an invitation, and Jack was fairly certain he was doing that on purpose now. Because, despite the fact that they had now said more words to each other than they had in the past month, Jack still didn't want to be there. They fell into silence again, and Jack was about to decide that obviously the venue wasn't the problem when Jackson dropped into the chair across from him. He had his glasses off, dangling from his hand while his fingers rubbed at his eyes for a second.

"We're stuck with each other, aren't we?" Jackson didn't bother to look at Jack as he said that.

"You're the one who said we're best friends. This should be easy," Jack said, once again falling back on the idea of just not looking at Jackson. He could hear the obviously annoyed expression in Daniel's voice, though.

" _We're_ not friends." Jackson finally put his glasses back on, and by the time Jack actually looked at him, he was staring right at Jack like he couldn't figure him out. Jack exhaled very slowly before shaking his head.

"No. We're just, apparently, coworkers now," he said. Silence fell this time, and Jack busied himself by flipping through the papers, past the list of questions, through the transcripts they'd given him about Jackson's testimony. He'd never actually read it, honestly. He should have, but to him it was just crazy talk, fantasies, and myths. He read some of it now, mostly because what else was he supposed to do?

"You really shouldn't talk to generals like that," Jack said, reading over the end of the transcript. The part where Jackson told the interviewer to shove something up their ass painfully. There was no real admonition in his voice. If anything, there might have been a tiny bit of respect. Because Jack would have gotten annoyed after the first round of the same questions over and over again.

"I don't know. I've been speaking to you like that for years," Jackson replied, his eyes closed again, his head propped up by his hand. Jack would have assumed he'd fallen asleep if Jackson hadn't actually spoken.

Jack was pretty sure he had something else he was going to say, but that one sentence from Jackson stopped him. He frowned for a moment, and there was pure skepticism in his voice as he said, "Where you come from _I'm_ a _general_." He didn't bother make it a question.

"Two stars," Jackson replied, holding up two fingers and opening his eyes to look at Jack. "I have this theory about how they promote you every time you threaten to retire."

"That's just weird," Jack said, and Jackson actually laughed and muttered something that sounded a little sad and a little like that being what he'd said in another world when he'd gotten his first star.

And just like that they fell into silence again, but this time it felt more comfortable, less like they were avoiding each other, and more like they were actually starting to tolerate each other. Jack used the silence to actually read the transcript and the file it came attached to, only looking up occasionally to make sure Jackson was still conscious.

Jack finished the file quickly enough, and he rose to his feet. Jackson remained in the chair, head still propped in his hand, eyes closed. Jack nudged him as he walked past. "Wake up," he said, his voice almost an order.

"I wasn't sleeping," Jackson replied, but he opened his eyes and looked at Jack. "Same time next week?" Jackson asked this time, and he too didn't wait for a reply as he nodded and said, "Good," before he headed into the kitchen to make coffee. Jack let himself out.

After that one brief conversation, after Jack ignored the sadness in Daniel's voice, after they'd actually said three whole words to each other, those meetings became easier. It was still just a job, just Jack following orders, but sometime between talking about his real or imagined promotion and Jack actually bringing beer over to keep in Jackson's fridge for those once a week meetings, Jackson had stopped being Jackson and he'd become Daniel.

Jack wasn't really sure how it happened or why, and all he could really remember about their conversations were just flashes, sentences, and vague paragraphs of a life that Daniel didn't want to talk about and Jack didn't want to hear about, like what was this place called Abydos like (the answer to that question was always 'sandy', though Jack knew, even from the first time Daniel said that, that there was more to that story) and what was going through the Stargate like (Daniel's advice was that Jack sit in his desk chair and spin around really fast, but Jack was pretty sure he was kidding or just wanted to watch Jack make a fool of himself), but the visits went from one visit a week to two, then three.

Jack's reports never really got more detailed. He kept his paragraphs short, giving his superiors only what he knew they wanted to hear, whether it was all lies or half-truths. And Jack didn't even realize he was putting his career in jeopardy until it had been almost a year since this had all started.

When he arrived at Daniel's front door that day, he was carrying a plant. Something small, didn't require a lot of care or light, because the one thing that Jack had really noticed was that Daniel didn't like a lot of light. He kept the windows closed more often than not, curtains drawn to block out the light and the sight of a city that wasn't really his. Jack knew that much without Daniel having to say it.

"You brought me a plant...." Daniel's words were careful, like he was half expecting said plant to attack him.

"Do you have plant fear, Daniel?" Jack said that like he wasn't really expecting an answer as he held out the plant. Daniel just sighed and took the plant from Jack with a frown. "You've been here for almost a year. I figured you no longer have an excuse for not decorating."

"It's a plant, Jack. Not a Picasso," Daniel said, placing the plant on the coffee table. He did take the time to turn it just slightly to get what little light was coming through the windows. He stood back up, wiping his hands on his pants before he turned to head for the kitchen. "Beer?" he offered, but he didn't wait for an answer, he already knew.

Jack could smell the coffee already brewing in the kitchen. That too had become tradition. A second later Daniel passed Jack a beer from the kitchen before Jack headed over to the couch. Daniel followed soon after with his own cup of coffee. Their positions were just as familiar as their beverages. Jack on the couch, papers in his lap so that he could at least pretend to be doing his job, Daniel in the chair, his position constantly shifting depending on how excited he was about whatever he was talking about.

"How's the, um," Jack didn't finish his thought, gesturing instead to where he knew the prosthetic leg was. Daniel looked down for a moment, shifting slightly so that the fake leg was out in front of him, straight. It didn't look artificial but that too was something he and Daniel had spoken about. Phantom pains, itches, and feelings, Jack had seen it before. He wasn't entirely sure why he cared now, but the more time he spent with Daniel, the more he saw how much the loss had bothered him.

"Uncomfortable. It itches, it's too tight, and it's not like it breathes properly in summer. We've been over this before, Jack." Daniel's response was automatic, like he was ticking things off with his fingers, long and detailed complaints about the false leg that they really had talked about before and that he really didn't want to go over again.

"Then what _should_ we talk about, Daniel? And I swear if you say mythology and translating glyph things again, I will get up and I will smack you, missing leg or no missing leg," Jack said evenly, pointing at Daniel as he spoke.

Daniel actually laughed at that, the sound warmer than the bitter laughs Jack had earned when they'd first started all this. "Well, I'm not discussing _The Simpsons_ or hockey, so we're out of conversation topics. I suppose we should stop meeting like this in that case?" Daniel's eyes were narrowed slightly, an expression that Jack had started to recognize as his teasing expression, one that came without a smile or a smirk.

"Oh, no. You're not getting rid of me that easily," Jack said with a shake of his head. A comfortable silence came over them, and that too was a familiar rhythm. Only this time, Daniel actually got up, moving to the window and pulling the curtains open slightly. Jack was, honestly, startled by the flood of light. Such as it was.

"Has it really been a year?" Daniel asked after turning to lean against the window. There was a moment where Jack just stared at Daniel, haloed by the faint sunlight coming in front outside. That moment didn't last too long before Jack got up and moved to stand next to Daniel.

"Have you ever really looked out the window? Like really looked? The government gave you an excellent view. I mean, I get a brick wall and a vacant lot. You get the river." Jack didn't know why he was stalling. Maybe it was because he still didn't know how to deal with Daniel when he was like this - sad, introspective, brooding, remembering things he'd lost or things that had maybe never existed. Jack had never asked.

"Jack." Daniel made his name an order, and that startled Jack. What startled him more was that he followed it. He didn't even know what exactly the order was, but he knew enough to follow it.

"Almost a year. Few more weeks," he said with a shrug, still staring out over the river on the other side of Daniel's window. Daniel only nodded slightly, and when Jack turned to look at him, Daniel's eyes were focused on the plant. Jack opened his mouth to say something else, but he found himself reaching out almost blindly. Whatever he was about to say, it was better to just... do.

The kiss wasn't spectacular or mind-blowing or life-changing or world-shattering. It was just a kiss, but Jack held it for as long as he could, and when Daniel finally relaxed into it, his tongue touching Jack's lips, Jack parted his mouth eagerly deepening the kiss. His arm came down, slipping around Daniel's waist, trying to hold onto something. Jack wasn't even sure why. Maybe he just really couldn't handle Daniel brooding. Jack had never handled that well at all.

The kiss ended with Daniel's hands knotting in Jack's shirt at his shoulders, and he used that hold to forcefully move Jack backward and away from him. Daniel only let go of him when Jack was a good foot away from him, and Daniel stood there, breathing heavy, fingers pressed against his lips before his eyes snapped up and he wiped those fingers over his mouth.

"Please go," he finally said, his voice shaking as he backed away, turning toward the long hallway with just a bathroom and a bedroom at the end.

"Daniel," Jack started, taking a step after him, but Daniel didn't stop. "Jackson." This time, it was Daniel's name that was an order, and Daniel listened. Or at least paused, but only long enough to turn and look back at him.

"You died. A year ago, and I..." Daniel shook his head, his eyes closing as he held up his hands. "I can't do this, not today, Jack." There was a silent 'maybe not ever' in Daniel's voice, and Jack knew that that wasn't what Daniel was really going to say at first. He didn't ask _what_ Daniel was going to say. He simply stayed where he was, staring at Daniel's back as the man limped down the hallway.

He requested a transfer the very next day.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine. MGM owns them.


End file.
